


On Boats

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-06
Updated: 2008-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Amber's death, House lets Wilson go. Now he has to find him again.</p>
<p>Diverges from canon after <em>Dying Changes Everything</em> and <em>Not Cancer</em>.  Even though the show resolved everything neatly, I couldn't help  thinking about how things might have turned out if Wilson really <em>had </em>left  - what he might have done, where he might have gone, and how he and  House might have fared in each other's absence. This is what I came up  with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [](http://elynittria.livejournal.com/profile)[**elynittria**](http://elynittria.livejournal.com/) and [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/) for fantastic beta help and some very interesting discussion *g*. Also to [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[**bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/) for impromptu answers. All the questionable stuff is mine.

**Rosencrantz:** _We might as well be dead. Do you think Death could possibly be a boat?  
 **Guildenstern:** No, no, no… Death is … not. Death isn't. You take my meaning. Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can't not-be on a boat.  
 **Rosencrantz:** I've frequently not been on boats.  
 **Guildenstern:** No, no, no - what you've been is not on boats. _  
_\- Tom Stoppard,_ Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

 

_***_

 

The man with the cane walked slowly along the wharf in the fading light of a cold spring day, his shoulders slightly hunched against the freshening breeze. The slight creak of the pilings was a constant reminder of the need to take additional care with his footing on the damp, uneven boards. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the marina was quiet around him under the gray sky, although seagulls squawked and glided across the open waters of the bay. He scanned the boats one by one as he passed, the lines of his face drawn even deeper by his scrutiny. If Lucas' description was correct, the one he sought would not be found until he reached the very end of the wharf; but still he looked.

He passed more types of marine craft than he could name: short, squat things that looked like overgrown rowboats; catamarans with their double hulls; sleek, gleaming motorboats that sparkled in the remaining sun; odd, top-heavy monstrosities. But he would have known the type of boat he was seeking even without Lucas' detailed description - something that held the promise of sails, something that resembled the framed prints and models in Wilson's office he had seen so many times he had almost ceased to notice them.

And there it was, exactly as described, in the very last row facing directly out into the open bay - green hull, white deck. Lucas had described it as a 38-footer, which had sounded impressive, but up close it looked ridiculously small. House moved down onto the slipway that ran beside the boat and stood there for what felt like a long time, looking at it in silence. The boat bobbed in its slip, showing no obvious signs of life, contrary to the _Vivere_ painted in black copperplate on the hull.

House hated this, the uncertainty. He'd made an entire career out of action under pressure, where a patient's life often hung in the balance. Life or death decisions came easily to him, and he always made them knowing that when it came down to it, he'd done the best he could. But this was something else altogether, something far outside his comfortable sphere of competence, and he didn't know what to do.

He stood with his head bowed for a moment, thinking. This was a bad idea. Better to give it up and go back to his absurdly nautical-themed room for the night, where he could watch fuzzy TV and demand non-existent room service, and try again tomorrow. Or never. He knew himself well enough to know that if he did go now, the odds of him simply checking out and driving back to Princeton the next day were very, very high.

It was true that Cuddy had insisted on this visit as a condition of his return, but he could probably get around her if he just said that he'd tried. Make up something about getting the metaphorical door slammed in his face again. If he was convincing enough she probably wouldn't go to the effort of checking. And maybe that would be for the best. Let the death of their friendship rest in peace, and move on. Wilson certainly had, after all, and he should do the same. Let the loss extend without further comment into the rest of his life. But he had come here all the same, bad idea or not. Which must mean… something. But now that he was actually standing here, he realized he might not have the right to hope any more.

He was on the verge of turning away when a figure suddenly emerged from below decks, a black plastic garbage bag in hand.

 

***

 

In the end, House had let him go.

"I have the right to walk away from you," Wilson had said, and this time House had given in and let him, because he knew, they _both_ knew, that it wouldn't be for long. The shininess of House's need would draw Wilson back again, as inevitable as the pull of magnetic north. Wilson had tried the leaving routine once before already, not long after divorce number two, only to magically reappear after the infarction as though nothing had ever happened, as though they had never had that alcohol-fueled 'discussion' where Wilson had held House personally responsible for all the late nights and missed appointments that had led to Bonnie's departure.

Since then nothing had changed, not even after marriage number three. In some unspoken way House's leg had cemented the bond between them, made it unbreakable. Amber's loss had hurt Wilson badly - House understood that, and regretted it as far as it went; but he'd been there first, and foremost and always. Wilson would have to come back, because that's who he was. That's who _they_ were.

Just one more Friday night alone on the couch, and Wilson would be back, because despite everything he'd never returned House's front door key. Just one more week of House having to drag himself all the way downstairs to see acting head Rowland for an oncology consult, in such a way that would inevitably lead to Rowland storming Cuddy's office within the hour. Just one more month of walking past the empty office next door, kept empty for a reason, because it wasn't just him; _everyone_ knew Wilson would be back any day now. And things would go on the way they always had before.

Until the morning he arrived at work, and Wilson's door was open, and his name was gone, and his office smelled of air freshener and lilacs. There was currently no-one within, but there was new furniture, and unfamiliar books and bizarre hanging prints of gardens and flowers, and something that looked like a purple shawl draped over a sofa. House took one disbelieving glance and headed straight to Cuddy's office.

"Okay, where is he?"

Cuddy turned to him with a single apologetic glance toward the young resident sitting across from her. She spoke with a careful reasonableness that only irritated him further.

"I need that office, House. Dr. Mills has been waiting over a year for…"

"It's been long enough. Six months now. They were barely _together_ for six months. He wanted time, I gave him time. It's enough, already. So where is he?"

Cuddy gazed at him steadily for a moment and then shook her head. "I don't know."

"You must know. Sure, I didn't exactly expect him to call me with the news, but he's not going to cut off his boss, or his dying ex-patients."

"I haven't heard from him since two weeks after he left here, House. Just before he left town. When I asked where he was going, he said, and I quote, 'somewhere else'. Since then, not so much as a postcard." She gestured with an open hand, palm up. "His cell is disconnected too, but you probably knew that."

"Obviously," House said. Actually, he hadn't known it at all. Over the intervening months he'd thought of trying to call Wilson, but felt it would only have gotten him cut off, and would have been too much an admission of… he wasn't sure. Defeat, maybe.

"I'm sure you could find him if you tried. His parents, maybe, or that PI guy you tried to bill me for." Cuddy's voice softened. "I might even approve it this time."

House held her sympathetic gaze a moment longer, then turned and walked out.

It would be two years before he saw Wilson again.

 

***

 

House watched as Wilson picked his way out of the sunken area from which he had emerged and moved up to the flat surface around the boat's edge. Only then did Wilson finally notice him, and promptly stopped with an abruptness that would have been entertaining under different circumstances. His gaze swept House slowly from head to foot, but his face gave nothing away. Then he looked away, made his way to the boat's side, and jumped easily from deck to wharf. The bag in his hand crinkled and swayed with the movement.

He walked by House without a word, off the slipway, following the wharf back the way House had come. House took a few steps after him, but it was clear that Wilson had no intention of slowing his pace. Instead, House watched him go all the way back out and onto the concreted boardwalk, where a large dumpster stood open under a basic roof shelter. There was a small metallic thump as the bag disappeared inside. Then Wilson headed back along the wharf toward his boat, toward House.

Despite the grim set of Wilson's face, House had to admit the break seemed to have done him a lot of good. He was noticeably tanned, and in T-shirt and jeans he looked a little heavier, broader in his upper body. The creeping softness of his middle-aged lifestyle had receded, along with a little more of his hairline. But his face still held the boyish cast that made him look younger than his years. His stride was long and confident, but he was looking off into the sunset, steadfastly ignoring his visitor.

House moved directly into his path, forcing Wilson to come to a stop about three feet away. At least he had managed that much, but then Wilson just stood there, arms folded, obviously waiting for House to speak. And for once House was lost for words. What was there to say? If there had been anything he could have thought of that would have been useful he'd have said it already long ago, said it to Wilson's determined face through the half-open door. There was nothing he could say now that would not be obvious or inane, and so he said nothing at all. It was up to Wilson. Now it was his turn to look away.

When it became clear that no immediate attack was forthcoming, Wilson's defensive posture softened a little. He looked House over again, shook his head, and sighed.

"I guess it was only a matter of time," he said softly.

House shrugged. "You didn't even make it out of the state."

"I tried. But the boat was already moored here when I bought her and I thought, what the hell."

"Straight into the arms of another woman."

Wilson's smile, however tentative, was a relief. "Something like that."

"You really live on this thing? I’ve seen bigger coffins," House said, and then instantly regretted it.

Wilson's posture and his tone had hardened again. "Why exactly are you here? I'm not even going to ask how you found me."

"Actually, that was Cuddy. Or rather, Lucas. And Cuddy."

"Lucas?"

"The PI guy. Oh, wait, I forgot you were never formally introduced."

"House." The weariness of Wilson's expression was a warning. "Why?"

"I missed the sound of your lectures?"

"But why _now_? For the first six months, I thought, maybe, but…"

"You wanted to be alone, you got it."

"But you're here."

"I finally had a gap in my schedule."

"House." And the old familiar anger flared, just for a second, as Wilson's hands went to his hips and his forehead creased in frustration. Wilson knew it, too. He caught himself and forcibly moved his hands back down to his side, still clenched into loose fists. Then he brushed past House and went down onto the slipway for another few steps before he stopped. He turned back.

"I don't have to… this is exactly why I left, okay? All the games, the avoidance, the lies pretending to be answers. I don't have to deal with this any more. None of this is _my problem_." It had the sound of a well-learned mantra, as much a reminder to himself as a castigation of House. He paused, and some of the anger drained from his face, though not all of it. "If you actually want to _talk_ to me sometime, let me know."

Then Wilson turned away and climbed back onto his boat, quickly disappearing again into the gap that led down below decks. House made as though to follow him, and then stopped abruptly. The deck of the boat was about two feet above the wharf's surface, and choppy waves were rocking it in all three dimensions as it slid closer to the edge of the slip and then away again. And the wind was picking up. If House were to attempt to pursue Wilson at this point, he stood a very real chance of falling into the bay, or at the very least sustaining a nasty fall as he attempted to scrabble across the deck toward the entry way. Alternatively, he could stand out here and yell himself hoarse, even as the wind whipped his words away. There was no-one around to notice or care.

After a moment's more contemplation, he conceded that perhaps he had screwed this one up badly. Fortunately, there was one more option Lucas had so thoughtfully provided, but it would have to wait until the morning.

Slowly he turned and walked away, through the ever-deepening twilight.

 

***

 

The waiting room was quiet and tasteful; they obviously got a better class of sick people in this part of the world. A young, blonde receptionist worked the front desk; a hallway off to the side led to the inner sanctums. The rest of the room was taken up by bench seating covering the better part of three walls, upholstered in smart blue-gray vinyl on a wooden base. The floor was tiled in a similar hue. A low wooden table in the middle held the obligatory collection of aging magazines; underneath were three baskets of what appeared to be children's toys. Depressingly predictable prints of boats and beaches lined the walls, except for the wall behind the receptionist, which was graced with a large, unfathomable aberration of colors and shapes that could only be described as 'abstract'. The plant near the entryway was fake, but the squat vase of flowers on the reception counter was real.

House sat in one corner, seemingly having been engrossed in the pages of the local rag for the better part of an hour and a half. His cane lay at his feet, discreetly flush against the wooden baseboard of the bench seating. He'd slept badly last night, between the excessively soft bed and the aggressive central heating. After a late breakfast at the hotel, he'd come to the conclusion that his leg was hurting him more than usual. Definitely more than usual. Something that really needed to be checked out as soon as possible. And thanks to Lucas, he knew exactly where he could find a suitable doctor.

He peered around the newspaper. The earlier crowd had thinned out a lot. So far there had been at least three colds, two cases of bad sunburn, three inconclusives (probably old age), one squirming guy with something embarrassing (probably hemorrhoids), and a broken arm. Boring, boring, boring. The receptionist had been sweetly apologetic; because he didn't have an appointment he'd have to wait until a slot opened up, or perhaps he'd like to try Dr. Zimmerman, who had a ten-thirty? House had assured her he didn't mind waiting. Now it was down to five of them - two inconclusives, one cold, House, and a woman who was suffering from either conjunctivitis or a really bad break-up. He'd been there by far the longest of any of them.

He lifted the paper again as footsteps came down the corridor, and Zimmerman called for Mrs. Seward, who dabbed furiously at her eyes one last time before getting up. House flipped a page for the twentieth time as another double set of footsteps approached.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Wilson."

"I'll see you next Tuesday, Mrs. Trenton."

He heard the receptionist say something in an undertone, heard Wilson murmur reassuringly in response. The small rustle of a file being passed from hand to hand.

"Mr…"

The pause said it all. House counted to ten, and then peered around the newspaper again. Wilson was already glaring at him, having finally scanned the waiting room a little better than usual.

"…Gregory House," Wilson finished at last. The tension in his voice was palpable enough that the other patients began eyeing House curiously, and the receptionist gave Wilson an anxious glance.

"I'm sorry, is something the matter, Doctor? He said he just got in yesterday, and didn't have time to make an appointment. I just thought he'd been waiting so long, and his leg…"

"It's fine, Melissa," Wilson said, before turning back to him. " _Mr._ House is… one of my former patients."

House was impressed. It wasn't even a lie, Wilson having been his prescribing physician and all. He folded up the paper ostentatiously, rummaged beneath his feet for the cane, and then stood up, giving the receptionist a broad smile.

"That's right," House said. "He saved my life. I traveled forty miles just to surprise him."

"Oh, that's wonderful." Melissa smiled back, but she was still anxiously glancing back and forth between them.

"Yes it is," Wilson said tightly, without looking at her. He began walking back toward his office without another word.

"He embarrasses easy," House informed the waiting room at large, and followed him.

 

***

 

Wilson's office looked altogether different, and yet strangely familiar. It held all the familiar equipment of a standard doctor's office: desk, patient exam table, BP monitor, scales, an overcrowded shelf full of supplies. The walls were white, but the blue-gray theme had continued on through to the roller chair and storage cupboards. But out of the generic miscellany, House could easily pick out the things that were Wilson's alone: the medical diploma, the small professional library, the globe, the stuffed toys, the large print of a sailing ship that had formerly been on his office wall at PPTH. The movie posters were gone. There was a single small wood-framed photo on the far side of Wilson's desk, next to the computer. House had to peer slightly around the desk to see. Amber, smiling. She had followed him too.

He didn't have much time to contemplate; Wilson had shut the door and come back to stand beside his desk, arms folded. The lines of his face were so familiar that House almost wanted to smile, but he knew it would get him in no end of trouble. Instead he stood there, and waited, almost exactly as he had the previous night.

"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson had pitched his voice deliberately low, but the fury was unmistakable.

House looked up, shrugged. "My leg hurts."

He knew he was being deliberately aggravating, but something in him resented his surroundings. The calm ordinariness of it all. The fact that Wilson had been able to do this, to start over without him. Wilson just looked at him, his sheer outrage obviously precluding further speech.

"And I thought you'd be grateful for something to liven up your incredibly boring day," House added, unable to help himself. "I bet you actually look forward to the occasional heart attack."

"House, don't do this. I've moved on. I'm happy. Just leave it alone."

"I haven't _done_ anything," House pointed out. "What I've _done_ is waited almost two hours in a room of hypochondriacs, just so you'd talk to me. Waited _quietly_ , I might add. Ask blondie if you don't believe me."

"Melissa," Wilson said automatically, but House could see him relaxing just a little as he weighed the truth of House's defense. Wilson would know, better than anyone, how difficult that had been for House. Both physically, in not being able to significantly reposition his leg for that amount of time, and mentally, in resisting the urge to meddle in any of the operations of the practice. His leg really _did_ ache.

Finally, Wilson nodded.

"Okay," he said. He reached for the roller chair and sat down, putting the corner of the desk between them. House stayed on his feet; he'd had enough of sitting for the moment. Despite that, it still felt oddly formal; as if he really were one of Wilson's patients.

"So, _Mister_ House," Wilson said, leaning forward slightly. Despite the lightness of his tone, his eyes were still cautious. "What seems to be the problem?"

House hesitated. He didn't want to do this here, but he knew Wilson's tolerance was already stretched thin. He settled for a half-truth. "Cuddy wants to know if you'll come back."

"So she sent _you_?" House was clearly out of practice; Wilson hadn't been distracted for a moment.

"Kind of." His left hand plucked at his right as they rested on top of his cane. He'd obviously have to go a little further. "I'm… on leave."

Wilson's face flickered between amusement, annoyance, and concern. It was fascinating to watch.

"Okay, what did you do?"

House shook his head. A sudden torrent of mixed emotions washed over him, but he pushed them down fiercely. He wasn't going to do this here, in Wilson's shiny new office. The thought of being treated like one of Wilson's patients, being professionally _listened to_ with calm words and detached empathy, revolted him. Either Wilson still genuinely cared about him or he didn't. If Wilson insisted, he would simply leave. That would be his answer, right there.

Wilson watched him intently. Then he closed his eyes briefly, bringing one hand up to rub gently at the side of his face. He looked off to the left, then glanced down at the frame that held Amber's picture. He appeared to study it for a long moment, thinking.

"Don't ask her," House said. "She always hated me."

"She didn't hate you, House," Wilson said, still studying the picture. "And I'm not _asking_ her anything. She never wanted that."

He didn't explain and House didn't push him. He simply waited. It was starting to become a habit. Finally, Wilson appeared to reach some kind of internal resolution.

"You want to come by this evening?" he said. "I'll… make something."

House nodded, although the thought of spending any time aboard that floating shoebox Wilson now apparently called home was not in the least bit appealing. He'd never suffered from claustrophobia, exactly, but between his height and his disability it sounded about as attractive a prospect as being jammed in an airplane seat for ten hours during heavy turbulence. Except that Wilson would be there. That counted for something.

"Seven o'clock, maybe?" Wilson was saying, and for a moment it was as though nothing had changed. It was Friday. He was going to have dinner with Wilson. Everything around them had changed, but that single fleeting moment of familiarity buoyed him. He clung to it gratefully.

"I guess they don't deliver out there."

Wilson smiled. "Usually not, no."

Minutes later, Wilson escorted him back out to the waiting room, and took one of the inconclusives back in with him. House was left to the mercy of Melissa, who presented him with his bill.

"Everything all right, I hope?" she said cheerfully.

House bit back a quip about Wilson's chronic drinking problem, and got out his credit card instead.

"Just fine," he said, and signed the charge slip for his co-payment. It was the least he could do.


	2. Chapter 2

****He had lunch at a casual outdoor café overlooking the water, and spent the afternoon restlessly exploring the main strip. It was rare for him to have this kind of enforced leisure - this kind of spare time would normally have him out on his bike, or at home on his couch with his eclectic collection of CDs, neither of which were viable options here. He browsed through books, combed through racks of T-shirts with endless beach motifs, and wandered aimlessly through a few gift stores, amazed as always by the ingenuity of the human mind.

The hotel room was pristine and waiting for him when he arrived back just before sunset, the coverlet smoothed neat and tight as though the bed had never been slept in. House slung the two plastic bags from his afternoon stroll onto the table, and went into the bathroom. After he had flushed and washed his hands, he studied himself in the mirror, wondering if he should bother getting changed into something slightly less… worn. It was ridiculous how uneasy he felt. Nervous. In their years of what he at least had considered friendship, Wilson had never commented much on how he looked or what he wore. But House had the instinct that in their two recent encounters Wilson was watching everything he did, evaluating it anew. He wasn't sure he could take anything for granted any more.

He settled for changing his shirt, leaving the rest of his ensemble untouched. Then he unlaced his sneakers and lay down on top of the covers, reaching over for the TV remote. He swallowed a couple of pills and flipped channels until it was time to go.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It really was a beautiful place, House decided reluctantly, as he once again trod the uneven path to Wilson's door. Hatch. Whatever. It was much darker than it'd been the first time he was out here, but the wharf was well lit with small floodlights, and the lights in turn reflected off the water. The waves were near silent against the hulls of the boats, but they made the lights continually shimmer and re-form in their wake. Boring as hell, but beautiful.  
  
At this hour his destination was far more obvious than the first time. Down this stretch of the wharf the boats were mostly dark, obviously pleasure craft. But from right down the end there came the guiding glow of a boat's running lights, even though presumably Wilson wasn't actually going sailing at this time. It was probably his equivalent of leaving the porch light on. The white glow at the tip of the empty mast stood out against the sky.  
  
House reached the slipway's edge and stood looking at the boat dubiously, wondering how on earth he was going to get aboard. If Wilson didn't come out and look for him, he would probably be reduced to standing there all night. Even though the water was now relatively calm, the deck was still a moving target two feet above the dock line, and both his hands were full. In addition, the middle of the boat was raised to accommodate the living quarters below, which meant there was very little room for any kind of a firm foothold on the outer edges. He might still have to resort to yelling.  
  
"Just stay there."  
  
He was saved from further reflection by the sight and sound of Wilson emerging from the dark rectangle near the back of the boat. Wilson made his way easily over to the dockside edge, comfortable on the lightly shifting surface. For a moment House envied him - not just the freedom of his mobility, but the way he had so obviously _adjusted_ to his new life. It was House who couldn't let go, for fear of drowning.  
  
"The bags first. Then the cane."  
  
Obediently, House handed over the plastic bags he had brought with him. Wilson set them on the deck beside him with a gentle clunk, and repeated the procedure with the cane. Then he studied House's position.  
  
"Maybe you could just grab onto the shroud."  
  
"The what?" Wilson was obviously planning to kill him already.  
  
"The wire there." Wilson indicated a thin strand of steel that ran at a vertical slant from the mast down onto the deck. "It can take your weight, and I'll take the other side. It won't be much of a jump for you, but you have to be quick about it."  
  
House took hold as instructed with his left hand, put his weight on his left leg, and put the other foot onto the deck. He had no option but to clutch tightly onto Wilson's arm in lieu of putting weight on his right leg as he made the step. His leg buckled as expected, and he stumbled as the boat shifted beneath him, but Wilson held onto him and steadied him quickly.  
  
"Okay?" Wilson asked.  
  
House shook his head, not so much in negation as from a sense of disbelief. This was so completely not the place for someone with an already endangered sense of balance. Wilson couldn't have chosen more inhospitable terrain if he'd tried. He wondered if it was deliberate.  
  
"Maybe I should have gone for something onshore," Wilson said, reading his mind effortlessly.  
  
"Look on the bright side," House said. "This way, if something goes horribly wrong, you can dump me overboard."  
  
Wilson laughed, but even in the shadowed light he looked troubled. It was clear he hadn't fully anticipated the difficulties House would have when he'd issued the invitation.  
  
Somehow House managed to make his way across the deck of the boat and into the open box of the steering compartment, but getting down the rectangular rabbit hole into the boat itself was almost as bad. Again Wilson had to take his bags and cane as he part stepped, part crawled his way backward down the near vertical ladder.  
  
At least there was plenty to hang onto on the way down - the interior space was so tight that one of his hands ended up resting on part of what passed for a kitchen counter, with a saucepan bubbling not much more than a foot away, while the other rested on some kind of open desk. House strongly suspected that if he stretched out both arms to their full extent he would be able to touch both sides of the compartment. Not that he was likely to attempt such a foolish thing in his position.  
  
He managed a couple more steps backward into a marginally more open area of the cabin, then promptly straightened up and hit his head on the ceiling.  
  
"Ow," he complained, rubbing it as Wilson slipped through the entryway and came forward down the ladder without missing a beat. "That's it. You really are trying to kill me."  
  
Wilson looked concerned for a moment, but when he saw that House was fine, it briefly lost out to amusement.  
  
"Sorry. I guess it's… never really bothered me." House noted sourly that _he_ was capable of standing fully upright in the tiny space. Wilson placed the bags and cane on the desk where House's hand had rested only a moment earlier, and checked the contents of the saucepan. By then House had recovered enough to spot the spaghetti draining in the one-basin sink, the bowls and plates in a little alcove above the two-burner stove. The rich smell of the sauce filled the entire place; it seemed the tiny area hadn't put a significant dent in Wilson's cooking skills.  
  
"Make yourself comfortable," Wilson said, turning off the heat. Only the corner of his mouth gave him away.  
  
"I'm not sure I can," House grumbled. He had had quite enough of the floating death trap already. Behind the galley kitchen/desk area were two long, padded benches stretching along the edges, with recessed shelves behind them mostly full of tightly wedged books and papers, although tucked away in one corner was a tiny flat-screen TV, bolted to the wall. The bench to his left had a fixed table obstructing it, picnic-style, so House made for the other one, sat himself gratefully down on it and uncurled. At least there was enough room for him to _sit_ upright.  
  
He would have looked further around the cabin, but apparently the galley, desk, and padded benches constituted the entirety of the living space. Set into the wall on the other side of the table was a louvered door that presumably led to a bathroom and somewhere to sleep. Apart from the cream walls and countertops and the deep blue of the seat covers, almost all the fittings seemed to be made of or edged with medium-brown teak.  
  
"You know this entire place is smaller than your office."  
  
"Well, it's not like I spend all my time down here," Wilson said. "Besides, I like it. It's… cozy."  
  
"Sure, if you like being buried alive."  
  
He saw Wilson frown and suddenly become very intent on setting the table with glasses and cutlery. House went for the distractive ploy.  
  
"There's stuff in the bags," he pointed out.  
  
After Wilson was done with the table, he dutifully went over to the bags, extracting a bottle of wine and what appeared to be a piece of twisted, sun-bleached wood with a couple of naturally rounded grooves in its surface. He turned it over in his hands curiously.  
  
"Apparently you can stick candles in it. I thought it was kind of cool," House said, watching him.  
  
Wilson gave the driftwood piece a final appraisal, then set it aside without a word. House couldn't tell if he was pleased or annoyed. The wine he brought over, handing it and a corkscrew to House to fiddle with.  
  
"So how is Cuddy, nowadays?" Wilson asked.  
  
This was fairly safe ground, and House began a running account of all the scandals and noteworthy events that had happened at the hospital since Wilson's departure, almost all of it based on actual events. When the food was ready, House was forced to move over to the other side of the cabin, sliding himself carefully between the padded bench and the fixed table. Wilson joined him there soon after, and they ate side-by-side, elbows almost touching. It felt both completely alien and comfortingly familiar.  
  
Dinner was punctuated with strained moments, but was mostly pleasant. The wine hadn't been chilled properly, but neither of them were particularly finicky about it, and Wilson had somehow managed to produce excellent foil-wrapped garlic bread and home-made spaghetti bolognaise from a kitchen roughly the size of a shopping cart. House continued his stories over dinner while Wilson contributed a couple of his own, mostly to do with people who had dangerously underestimated the combination of sailing and alcohol.  
  
Slowly, the tension between them began to dissipate, and by the time Wilson produced coffee and cake that appeared to mostly be for House's benefit, House could pretend it was almost the way things had been before. Except that things had never really been like this at all.  
  
Sure, Wilson had made dinner for them both when he had temporarily moved in with House, but the rest of the time it had been beer and take-out and movies, with an occasional restaurant or diner meal thrown in. When Wilson was with someone, he was no fun to visit, and when he wasn't with someone, the same thing usually applied. So most of their time together had been spent on House's turf, where House's usual idea of contributing was to bring himself. Come to think of it, they had _never_ done anything like this.  
  
"So everything's… okay," Wilson said, finally, as he began clearing up. "At the hospital, I mean."  
  
"Well, unless Foreman manages to kill someone while I'm gone."  
  
Wilson scraped remains into a trash bag and then began stacking the plates in the sink. "You still haven't told me why you're here. After all this time."  
  
House hesitated. He knew Wilson deserved an answer, but they had just eaten together, and laughed, and it was so calm and peaceful here amidst the soft lapping of the waves, the gentle sway of the boat. He knew it was all basically an illusion, but he wanted to hold onto it as long as he could.  
  
“It was Cuddy's idea," he said at last. "She said I… had to. If I wanted to work for her again."  
  
House toyed with the handle of his coffee cup as Wilson finished the second sweep of plates and forks in silence. Then he came back to sit beside House.  
  
"What happened?" he said, gently, but in a way that told House he was done waiting.  
  
"Couple of months back," House said, very carefully not looking at him. "Mom… Blythe," he added redundantly. "She… well, you know."  
  
He glanced up at Wilson, then stared down at the table. He was furious at his own cowardice, but the memory was still too raw to name.  
  
"No," Wilson said softly from beside him. "Or do you mean…"  
  
House shrugged, but his hands were curled into tight fists, the knuckles turning white. "Had to happen sometime, right?"  
  
"House… I know it doesn’t count for much, but I'm so sorry."  
  
"So I would say we're even now, except for the whole Oedipal implications."  
  
Wilson ignored the dig. "Was it… did you know it was coming?"  
  
"I didn't know anything. Just a phone call one fine and sunny day. My aunt. He didn't even bother to call me himself." There was no need to explain. Wilson would understand.  
  
"He was probably too upset…"  
  
"Yeah. Don't care."  
  
"I would have come. To the funeral, at least. If I'd known."  
  
"Pity you didn't exactly leave me a note." House's voice was hard, unforgiving, all the grief and anger suddenly spilling out into his tone.  
  
Wilson said nothing for a very long time. Slowly, House got himself back under control, then glanced over at him. Only then did Wilson begin to speak, addressing the air in front of him.  
  
"I said I was sorry, House. I mean it. She was a great lady. But I wasn't responsible, and I'm not going to let you guilt trip me into believing otherwise. I'm sorry I wasn't there, for you or for her."  
  
"It's okay," House said quietly, his anger gone as suddenly as it had come. "I wasn't there either."  
  
"Of course you weren't. I meant for the funeral."  
  
"I know what you meant."  
  
"House, you didn't…" Wilson's tone had already taken a hard turn toward disapproval.  
  
"That's right," House said, deliberately misunderstanding. "I didn't. She was dead - she wasn't going to care."  
  
"I know you never liked that kind of thing… But she was your _mom_. She loved you."  
  
"Yeah," House said, and he turned his head away. "But I was kind of busy that day."  
  
"Doing _what_? What could be more important than your own mother's funeral?"  
  
House felt a familiar tinge of annoyance at Wilson's outrage. While Wilson might well have had good reasons for leaving, House had also had his own reasons for letting him go. Whatever House did, Wilson always knew what was right, what was best. Except when he didn't know anything at all.  
  
"You know, it's funny," House said, in a tone that suggested exactly the opposite, "but the only reason I picked up the phone to begin with was because I thought… I thought it might be you. Even then. Doing that last-minute, coming to the rescue thing you always do. But it wasn't. It was Cuddy. I was… I still don't know exactly what I said to her. I can't remember anything about it. I don't remember hanging up. She got… she got the paramedics there just in time, and for a month afterwards I wished she hadn't."  
  
Beside him, Wilson had become perfectly still and silent. House had finally gotten him to shut up, but he wasn't proud of it.  
  
"See, I told you," he continued matter-of-factly. "Busy. And after that she had me under watch for a week."  
  
"So why did you come here, now?" Wilson said, and his voice was unexpectedly harsh. "To tell me this? To make me feel bad for leaving? I already feel bad, House. I don't think you could make me feel any worse than I already do. But there's one thing you don't understand. That, right there, that's why I left in the first place. Because I was sick of death. Of dying. Of never knowing what stupid thing you might do next, leaving me to pick up the pieces all over again. Even if I'd been there, would it have made any difference to you?"  
  
House considered the question. "I don't know," he said at last, truthfully. "Cuddy seems to think it might have. She put me on medical leave, said I had to find you. Because then I'd know. Whether there was… anything left."  
  
"And…?"  
  
"I still don't know."  
  
"God, House, you had absolutely no right to do this," Wilson said. "I was happy enough here. You should have just let me be happy."  
  
"Are you? Really?"  
  
"Happy enough."  
  
"With your boat and your sunburn patients."

"It was so hard, the first few months. You have no idea. I didn't know where to go, what to do. I'd always wanted…" he indicated the cabin, then glanced over at House, who nodded. "I bought the boat, did her up, got through all my licenses, and that was enough for a while. Then I decided I needed to start earning a living again, but at something… easier. Where you could usually expect to see people live out the year. I work short hours, go sailing on the weekends. I'm happy.”  
  
"Happy enough," House corrected. Wilson conceded with a shrug.  
  
"Well then, I'm sorry to come by and ruin your paradise," House continued. At least he had his answer. Wilson was perfectly fine without him, and wanted to stay that way. "I'll leave you to it."  
  
He would have already left, had he not been well aware of how ungainly an exit it would be. As it was, he would have to manage somehow. He got to his feet, remembering to keep his head down this time.  
  
"House, don't," Wilson said. He sounded oddly resigned. "You were right."  
  
That caught his attention immediately. "Of course I was. What about?"  
  
"I remember… I still remember everything you said. Bereavement 101. You were right. But I had to go. At the time, I couldn't see my way out of anything, short of…" He shook his head. "But you're right. Some things you can't run away from."  
  
"Especially not if they follow you," House added.  
  
"There is that." Wilson even managed to smile, a little. "Amber… Amber was always telling me to do whatever I wanted. And I tried, because she said it would make her happy. But I failed, time after time, because I… I didn't _know_ what I wanted. I'd become so used to…" he waved a hand slightly before letting it fall again "…to reflecting other people. What they wanted. What they needed. You most of all. I couldn't _think_ with you around."  
  
He turned to House. "And knowing all that, last night - after I'd calmed down - I went after you. But you were already gone. That's when I knew."  
  
"Knew…?"  
  
"What I wanted."  
  
Wilson got out from behind the table and moved around to where House stood, still slightly stooped over. His presence seemed to fill all the remaining space in the cabin. House was suddenly hyperaware of everything about him: his warmth, his breathing, the flush suffusing his face. Wilson was still talking, but he was going places House was finding difficult to follow.  
  
"It wasn't… what I would have chosen, but I think Amber always knew, deep down. Because she really did care about me. She kept pushing me to do what I wanted, no matter how stupid, or childish, or hopeless it was. Even if it was a mistake. Because it was better to learn that, and move on."  
  
House nodded slowly, uncertain of exactly what Wilson was saying. Something about stupidity and making mistakes. Something to do with their friendship.  
  
"So you mean… we're okay?"  
  
"I meant what I said, House. We were never friends." Wilson's eyes were dark, completely serious.  
  
Then Wilson leaned forward and both his hands were on House and he was kissing him softly, but with a quiet certainty. It was shocking and absurd and wonderful. House hesitated for a moment; his heart raced wildly; the pit of his stomach went into freefall. Then his hands came up to grip Wilson tightly as he responded. He still wasn't sure he understood, but he wasn't about to question it now that Wilson had all but capitulated. Whatever it took. And it had been a long time since he'd experienced such a dizzying rush of sensation. Wilson was all hard lines and muscle beneath his touch, and that only heightened the sense of unreality. House had always been sure he knew Wilson better than anyone, but now he felt like he'd never really known him at all.  
  
Too soon, Wilson pulled himself away. He was studying House intently, although House had no idea what he wanted to see. Forgetting for a moment, House straightened up, earning himself another slight bump as his head brushed the ceiling.  
  
"Do you think we could sit down now?" he said. Not waiting for an answer, he collapsed onto the open bench seat, pulling Wilson down with him. He leaned over Wilson, placing one steadying hand on his hip, and felt Wilson submit to him, parting his lips sweetly under House's. It didn't feel like lust to House; at least, not yet. It felt like relief, like comfort. Like forgiveness.  
  
In all the years House had known Wilson, he had so rarely touched him, or been touched by him. They had walked side-by-side, shared their food (not always by mutual consent), and seen each other through some dark times, but House had never been a hugger or a backslapper by nature. He had always relied on words as both his weapons and his armor. But he realized now that his words had not been able to keep Wilson from leaving, nor had Wilson's ever substantially altered House's behavior. Something else had to change between them, and just maybe, this was it.  
  
House took full advantage of the shifting landscape of the universe, running his hands over Wilson's arms, his shoulders, learning him without sight. In turn Wilson's lips traced a soft path along his jaw line, then into the curve of his neck. One hand rested on House's hip, the other on his leg just above his scar, but it went no further. Finally, Wilson let him go.  
  
"It's… good to see you," Wilson said, dryly.  
  
  
***  
  
  
By unspoken agreement, they went no further that night. House was tired, both physically and emotionally, and this new thing between them felt too fragile to risk. Instead they sat close together, resting casually against each other in a way not previously permitted, hands touching, stroking. And they talked - about Amber and Blythe and Julie and Stacy, and all the things they had kept from each other in not only the past two-and-a-half years, but since the beginning of their friendship. Occasionally House would pull Wilson to him again, just because he could, and sometimes it would be Wilson's mouth on his.  
  
Only once did he contemplate where this was going. When the wine and coffee got the better of him, Wilson informed him that the tiny excuse for a bathroom lay behind the main cabin, through the louvered door. When he stepped through, Wilson's bed lay directly in front of him. It was as surreal as everything else this evening. Built into the lines of the forward section of the boat, the bed was in the shape of a giant skate wing, with a blunted point at the top end just wide enough for two pillows, angling outward to take up almost the entire width of the boat at the bottom. It looked like hell to buy sheets for.  
  
The bathroom took up the area immediately to his right, and he took advantage of it, washing his hands in the doll-sized sink. Then he went back out into the bedroom area, shutting the door behind him, and once again the V-shaped bed caught his attention. There was a hatch built into the ceiling that also acted as a kind of skylight, and through it a dull ambient light illuminated the covers. His imagination briefly conjured up the image of Wilson lying there in the shadows, naked, spreadeagled. House wasn't eighteen any more, and things didn't always work as well as he wanted, but he thought… he thought with that kind of incentive he could probably manage. He thought of how Wilson might feel underneath him, how he might sound, and he palmed himself just once through his jeans, allowing himself the tiny tingle of anticipation. Then he straightened his clothes and went back out to the main cabin.  
  
They ended up on deck, House needing to wrestle with the ladder-like steps once again in order to pull himself up to the pilot area of the boat. There were more cushioned benches there, long enough for even House to lie down in comfort. From there they watched the stars for a while in relative silence, buoyed by the gentle rocking, occasionally reaching across the space between them.  
  
By the time House left, it was nearer morning than night. He was almost as reluctant to leave the boat as he had been to originally board it, but he was almost comatose with exhaustion, and Wilson had not invited him to stay. This time around he was able to sit on the edge of the deck and dangle his feet toward the dock, which made the trip from boat to shore slightly less perilous. Wilson helped him off, then walked him to the marina carpark. It was dark and deserted. They shared one more brief kiss before House got into his car.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow," Wilson said. "If you still… want to."  
  
House looked at him with mock-solemnity. "I'll be there."  
  
When he made it back to the hotel, his room suddenly felt amazingly spacious. And stable. He stretched broadly, arms fully extended above him, muscles straining all the way down his back, then fell fully clothed onto the bed, reaching down only long enough to untie his shoes and throw them with a double thump onto the floor. Then he slept.  
  
He dreamed of floating in an endless ocean, alone yet unafraid, as the wind and tides guided him gently toward shore.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The next day House slept all the way through to early afternoon. The bed was still too soft, and the central heating excessively enthusiastic, but it was better than he had slept for a very long time. When he finally rose, he showered and changed. His discarded clothes still smelled of Wilson's aftershave.  
  
After a perfunctory lunch in the hotel dining room, House set off for the marina. He felt relaxed, eager to see Wilson again, to touch him, to confirm for himself that what had happened the previous night was real.  
  
The boat was gone.  
  
After the initial lurch in the pit of his stomach, House saw the note - a piece of paper in a plastic sleeve cover nailed firmly to a docking post.  
  
 _House -_  
  
 _Coming back this time. Really. 5 o'clock._  
  
Despite the implied promise, it made him uneasy. It was a blunt reminder of just how tenuous his new bond with Wilson was. Wilson hadn't wanted him to stay the night, and now he had once again disappeared into parts unknown. The disappointment stung, and he blamed both Wilson for running out on him and himself for expecting Wilson to be there.  
  
It was just after two o'clock. House spent the remainder of the afternoon meandering around the waterfront of the bay, stopping to rest whenever he had to. The initial sense of anticipation had faded, leaving morose uncertainty in its wake. Maybe this was Wilson's way of proving to himself that he didn't need House after all. Maybe he would even just decide just not to come back. House knew the idea was ludicrous; Wilson was hardly going to desert his job and his car and his storage locker on a whim. But there was no telling what this Wilson was capable of.  
  
House did not arrive back at the marina until nearly six, a good hour after Wilson's scheduled return. First, because he didn't want to face the idea of Wilson being a few minutes late and feeding his paranoia further; second because he was unmistakably, unreasonably angry, and he knew it, and he didn't want to have to deal with it in front of Wilson. He even briefly toyed with the idea of not showing up at all. But that was almost as stupid as the idea of Wilson sailing off and deciding never to return.  
  
The boat was back as promised; Wilson was up on deck doing things with rope and canvas that House instantly resolved never to understand.  
  
"House!"  
  
Wilson finished stowing something in a long storage locker and jumped down onto the wharf to meet him. He was wearing a light blue waterproof jacket over a T-shirt, teamed with darker mid-length shorts and deck shoes. There was a baseball cap lying on one of the benches on deck, but Wilson's cheeks were still slightly ruddy from the sun, his hair disheveled. House for one thought he looked faintly ridiculous, but at least he appeared to be a good deal more relaxed than House himself.  
  
"I called the hotel, but they said you'd gone out," Wilson said casually, but House caught the hint of concern in his eyes. He'd lay good money that Wilson had actually forced them to send someone to open up his room. Just in case.  
  
"You could have called _me_ ," House pointed out, his irritation increasing. " _My_ cell still works."  
  
"I think I might have misplaced your number somewhere. When I changed mine," Wilson said, and from his evasive manner House knew that the forgetting had been thorough and deliberate. It didn't matter.  
  
"I came by… earlier." House indicated the note, still flapping in the light breeze.  
  
"I figured."  
  
They looked at each other for an awkward moment, and it seemed as if yesterday had never happened. Then Wilson laid a hand on his arm, and House was not quite angry enough to want to shake it off.  
  
"I started out at ten. I thought you'd still be asleep," Wilson explained quietly.  
  
"I was."  
  
"Then…"  
  
House shook his head. "I don't know. You weren't there." That was as close as he could come to an admission of his discomfort.  
  
Wilson's hand crept reassuringly up his arm; he tilted his face up a little to House's.  
  
"There are… people," House said warningly. At this hour on a Saturday the marina was relatively crowded. The closest were more than fifteen feet away and seemingly engrossed in doing inexplicable things to their own boat, but still. It was a small town. Things got around quickly, and Wilson presumably had some kind of reputation to protect.  
  
Wilson actually laughed. "I never thought I'd hear _you_ saying something like that." Then he kissed House anyway, and with it some of the tension between them drained away.  
  
"Come on," Wilson said when they were done.


	3. Chapter 3

House's entry onto the boat was performed in much the same manner as before, except that he did manage to avoid hitting his head this time when he climbed down into the main cabin. This time he left his cane outside the entryway - there was plenty to hang onto below. He found the surroundings disconcertingly familiar already, and he could hear the tread of Wilson's footsteps above him as he finished up on deck. He joined House a moment later.

"You want something?" Wilson said, opening a wooden door below the right-hand bench that apparently concealed an icebox. "There's not much in here, but I think I have juice."

House glared at him, making a grab for Wilson as soon as he was in range.

"What a stupid question."

The force of his own hunger surprised him. It certainly seemed to surprise Wilson, not that House was giving him any breath to complain. Wilson smelled of sun and wind, and Hous e could taste the salt tang on his lips. He slowly backed Wilson against the very edge of the galley, skillfully avoiding the low-hanging light and a horizontal net bag strung with groceries on the way. There he pressed his body up against Wilson's as far as he was able, until he could feel the thud of Wilson's heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest.

With most of his weight on his left leg and Wilson for support, he brought his right hand down to cup the swell of Wilson's ass, muscles tensing beneath his grasp. Then he began rocking against Wilson gently, enjoying the small shivers of pleasure running up his spine, even though he was not yet half-hard. The effect on Wilson, however, was more pronounced, and extremely gratifying. He kept this up until Wilson finally broke the kiss with a gasp, needing to turn his face briefly away from House's to draw breath.

"You had… other plans then," Wilson said. His voice had a throaty, distracted quality t hat made House want to push him onto the floor and do him right there, were it not six different kinds of impossible.

"You shouldn't have made me wait so long."

House frowned as Wilson slowly disengaged himself, but it was only to give House a push toward the forward cabin, and he was only too happy to comply.

The sight of the odd, triangular bed greeted House again, and he shook his head. The base of the bed plus the width of the mattress meant that the space between covers and ceiling was noticeably lower than in the rest of the cabin. It was positively cave-like.

"You know that's not so much a bed as an oversized shelf."

Wilson had come up behind him. "It'll be fine, House."

"You sure you don't want to come up to the hotel?"

Then Wilson's hands and mouth were on him, and House was carefully pushed down into a semi-reclining position on the bed. Wilson's hands slipped under the edge of his T-shirt. "I'm sure," he said.

In the face of superior argument, House gave in. At Wilson's insistence, he began by shrugging off his own jacket and took off his T-shirt, both of which ended up somewhere on the floor. Then his sneakers and socks. When he had completed those maneuvers, Wilson pushed him a little further up the bed. At least it seemed to be long enough from head to foot, even for his frame. Wilson had slipped off his shoes, but otherwise hadn't done a thing. It seemed a little unfair.

House ceased worrying about equality as Wilson lay down beside him and began kissing him again, still fully clothed. Their bodies were tilted toward each other, legs slightly entwined. Wilson's hands traced patterns on House's chest, while House's hand slid lower down, intent on drawing more of those delicious sounds from Wilson. Then Wilson slid over, pushing House flat onto his back, and straddled him. The friction between them made heat flare in House's groin as he watched Wilson divest himself of the top half of his clothes.

Pinned to the bed in this position House couldn't move very far, but he had to admit the view was good. Now that the initial frenzy had passed, he slowly ran his hands over as much of Wilson's exposed skin as he could reach. It was smooth and warm under his fingers. Wilson shut his eyes and shivered.

"So what do you want to…?" House said. He mostly knew where they were going, but he also wanted to know how they were going to get there. It wasn't exactly a familiar situation for him. And although he trusted Wilson more than anyone, there were some things he was less than certain about, especially when it came to his leg. Wilson's eyes flickered open and he stared down at House, his eyes dark and intense. The twilight glow from the hatch above them lit him from behind like an avenging angel.

"You're going to lie there," Wilson said, in a way that made it clear he knew exactly what he wanted, and House could just shut up and go along with it. Then he moved off to the side again, and gave House’s cock a slow squeeze through his jeans before reaching over to undo the button. That drew an involuntary gasp from House, even as he pushed himself up on his elbow to see what Wilson was doing.

First Wilson freed House's cock gently from his jeans, and then between them they got the rest of House's clothing off. House hesitated for a moment as his scar was revealed, but Wilson had seen it before, and after a moment he decided it didn't matter. Certainly it did not seem to bother Wilson in the slightest. Naked now, he watched as Wilson took his cock again and began to stroke it into full hardness. It took a little while, and House helped out occasionally by covering Wilson's hand with his own. Then he abruptly stopped watching when Wilson leaned over and enveloped it with his mouth, creating sensations that forced his ey es shut and made his body jerk wildly in response.

"Fuck," he said quietly, almost reverently, as Wilson continued to lick and suck. He worked with a quiet efficiency that intrigued House even as most of his brain was being completely taken up with static. This wasn't an awkward, coming-out kind of thing. It was amazing. Wilson knew exactly what he was doing.

"Where…" House said, unable to stop himself even in the middle of one of the best blow jobs he had ever had. "Where the… fuck … hell did you… oh, god … learn to do… that?"

Wilson obviously thought House's remaining powers of speech indicated House wasn't paying enough attention to his efforts, and did this thing with his tongue that forced House back against the pillows, panting. He didn't care any more, now, didn't care about anything except Wilson's mouth and hands on him. A minute more of this and he would come. He began to lift his hips, t hrusting.

And Wilson stopped, squeezing his cock once, hard, at the base.

It took House a second to recover from the shock. "What the hell are you…" and then he propped himself up on one elbow again. His cock was throbbing as Wilson let it go.

Wilson ignored him as he slid off the bed and quickly took off his shorts and briefs, giving House a clear view for the first time, which successfully distracted him from his earlier complaints. Wilson was already half-hard, his erection jutting out slightly from his body. When he got back onto the bed, he made as though to straddle House again. House reached out and touched him, tentatively. Wilson's breath hissed out between his teeth.

House took that as invitation enough. After a few strokes with his hand he decided that if he was going to do this, he might as well do it properly. He gestured Wilson to move off of him, then propped himself up and did the best he could with his mo uth as Wilson knelt on the bed beside him. This was something a little more advanced than the drunken mutual masturbation sessions he'd engaged in during his college years, and it took him a while to adjust to the feel of Wilson in his mouth, the musky scent of him. He was clumsy and unpracticed, but Wilson accepted his efforts with soft moans, and when House managed to glance up he saw Wilson's face was set in rapt concentration, his mouth slightly open. Finally he grew tired of it and withdrew, swallowing the small amount of salty fluid that had trickled into his mouth as he worked.

"I didn't think… you'd actually do that," Wilson said, wonderingly.

"We're all just full of surprises today, aren't we?" House's tone was pointed.

Built into the head of the bed were two small cupboards in lieu of side tables, their doors flush against the wall. Wilson retrieved lubricant, condoms, and a small washcloth from one of them. House noted auto matically that the tube was half-used. Which could, of course, mean nothing, or everything.

Before Wilson could even shut the door again, House had reached for one of the condoms.

"Do we need this because of you, or because of me?" he said, holding it up. "Because I know exactly where my dick has been. I don't know about yours, though."

Wilson looked at him for a long time, considering, and appeared to reach a decision. Slowly, he put the condoms back in the tiny cupboard.

"Two and a half years," Wilson said quietly, shutting the door. "I learned… a few things."

He squeezed out some of the lubricant and rubbed it between his hands, warming it. He wasn't quite looking at House.

"I'll say." House understood loud and clear what Wilson was telling him, although he still couldn't get his head around it. They had talked last night, talked for hours, and Wilson had said nothing about his post-A mber relationships. Now that House thought about it, he might have brought up the subject, but Wilson had evaded so neatly he hadn't noticed. Or maybe House had just wanted to believe there hadn't been any. "So who was he? Or should I say, they?"

Wilson's mouth quirked slightly. "It wasn't a football team, House. Just one. Marcus."

"And you didn't see fit to mention this before now." House's irritation was severely hampered by the fact that Wilson was now stroking lubricant generously over House's much-depleted erection, bringing it back to life.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back," Wilson said. "It seemed… safer. And it wasn't a, a thing." He stopped for a moment, then moved up to kiss House on the lips, House's cock still loosely in his hand. "It was never going to work out. He was… younger. I think he just took me on for the novelty value."

"So, any women?" House demanded, watching him. Now tha t they had started down this path, House had to know.

That inexplicably made Wilson smile. "No, House. Not since Amber."

"Yeah, I bet…" she had that effect on everybody, House began, but didn't complete the sentence. He supposed he should be grateful to her for… something or other. "I mean, who could follow her?"

Wilson slapped him on his good leg, and none too gently either. "I know what you meant," he said. But he was still smiling. He moved up to straddle House again. "Now shut up."

House watched in complete fascination as Wilson lifted himself slightly, positioning himself. He reached behind him for House's cock, slippery with lube, and then began lowering himself onto it in tiny increments. He breathed deeply, his face utterly rigid in concentration as he moved further downward. Pain and pleasure chased each other across his face, the light from above cascading softly over his features. House could only st are, transfixed, bending and lifting his knees slightly to help him settle better.

"That's… oh, god…" Wilson said, and then he began to rock, eyes closed, his own cock rubbing against House's belly as he moved. After a little while his eyes opened, met House's, but he seemed to have gone somewhere where House couldn't reach him. The sounds Wilson made were exhilarating, humbling; it was as though he wasn't afraid to show House how much he loved this, how much he wanted House, how much he trusted him.

After a few minutes Wilson stopped his movements in order to apply a little more lube; this time House's cock slid home easily. Only then did House become aware of his own growing need. He began to thrust upward, but Wilson's weight restricted his movements, and the angle was not quite right for deeper penetration. Wilson seemed to sense this, moving slightly off House and back, shifting around slowly until House was able to find his own rhythm. Wil son was quieter now, but House was beginning to make up for him.

"I want to… see you," Wilson said, suddenly. House's eyes flickered open to meet Wilson's. He nodded, and closed them again, concentrating, his hands digging into Wilson's spread thighs.

Close, closer, and then his movements became erratic, helpless. He dug his heels into the bed, his back arched, his head fell back onto the pillow.

"I… oh, god," he said, and forced his eyes open, and Wilson's eyes were wide, fixed on his. "I love you," House whispered, in a panicked, desperate rush. He knew, even as he said it, that Wilson would not believe him, would take it for the kind of thing people said at such times, and therefore it was safe, the truth easily explained away in lies. Then there was nothing but the blinding rush of sensation.

Dimly, he heard Wilson take a long, indrawn breath, and he began to move again on top of House as House's own climax took him. There was the steady beat of skin against skin as Wilson stroked himself faster and faster; then House felt warmth pool and gather on his belly. And Wilson was calling for him frantically, calling his name, but why? He was here; he had always been here.

When Wilson's breathing had slowed a little, House pulled him roughly down into an embrace even as Wilson slipped away from him. There was sweat and stickiness between and around them, and none of it mattered in the slightest.

 

***

 

Nightfall, and now House sat at Wilson's ridiculous dining table again, clad in borrowed T-shirt and sweatpants. They were a little tight but serviceable; Wilson really had no right to find the sight as amusing as he obviously had. House's skin and hair were still slightly damp; after dozing for a while, they had taken showers in turn, if 'shower' could be said to be the right word for sitting on a toilet seat and half-heartedly watering y ourself with a hand-held attachment. Still, House felt clean enough. And relaxed. And hungry. Sex was all very well, but not at the expense of dinner.

Apparently he had worn Wilson out enough that all he was capable of was tomato soup and buttered toast, but it wasn't all that different from the dinners House had become used to having at home. House sat on Wilson's right this time, so they could eat without too much danger of collision, their free hands resting on each other's thighs beneath the table. The cabin lights were on, but two small candles still burned in the driftwood holder Wilson had set without comment on the table beforehand.

"So, are you throwing me out again?" House asked lightly, spoon poised between mouthfuls. "Or you could come back to the hotel with me and sleep in a real bed. Besides, then you wouldn't need to change the sheets."

Wilson shook his head in mild exasperation. "I'd have to change them anyway. " His tone grew a little darker. "And I've had enough of hotel rooms to last me a lifetime. But you can go back, if you want."

"If I want, meaning?"

"Or you can stay," Wilson said.

House stayed. As it turned out, the bed wasn't too uncomfortable at all, what with the fresh sheets, and the gentle rocking, and Wilson stretched out warmly by his side. Suddenly, on the verge of sleep, House remembered something from a conversation that seemed to have taken place a very long time ago.

"The waterbed," he said suddenly, his eyes flicking open.

Wilson turned toward him, startled. "What?"

"It wasn't a waterbed you really wanted," House continued, with the sweeping feeling of triumph that always came from seeing the puzzle pieces fall neatly into place. "It was…" he turned to Wilson, indicating the cabin around them, "all of… of… this. You finally worked it out."

Wilson l ooked at him with an odd intensity in his expression, then nodded slowly, placing a light hand on House's chest.

"I… guess I did," he said.

 

***

 

House woke to the smell of frying eggs and coffee. He stretched as well as he was able under the circumstances, went to the bathroom, and then slouched out into the main cabin, where Wilson was performing miracles with his two-burner stove. Wilson seemed distracted; he met House's entrance with a quick greeting, then turned back to his pan. House didn't mind; he settled into a spot on the open bench and waited.

The food was soon on the table. House noticed the driftwood piece was gone, probably stowed away in some drawer for safety. Wilson ate methodically, not looking at House, not quite touching him; it was as though some of the closeness they had shared had slipped away overnight. House tried not to notice, but he did duck briefly into the bedroom to retrieve the pi lls in the pocket of his jeans, downing one quickly before going to sit back down.

"So when are you going back?" Wilson said at last, over the remains of the coffee. "To the hospital."

The question caught House off-guard. He hadn't thought that far ahead.

"I'm supposed to check out today," he said, suddenly remembering. "I thought… well, that three days was going to be enough."

"Because I have to work tomorrow," Wilson said shortly.

"Okay," House said, uncertainly. "I can head off soon."

There was another awkward pause. It seemed as though neither of them wanted to bring up the question of where, or even if, they would go from here. Wilson got up and began clearing the table, then suddenly turned back to House.

"I thought I'd go out again today." He glanced out of the open entryway, from which a tiny strip of blue sky could be seen. "Do you want to…?"

House thought abo ut it. On the minus side, there was the sun, the sea, the wind, and the ever-rolling deck. On the plus side, there was the prospect of a few more hours with Wilson.

"Sure," he said.

 

***

 

House went back to the hotel to check out and change. He left most of his possessions in his car, taking only a small backpack with him down to the boat with his baseball cap, sunglasses, and another change of clothes. Just in case.

When he returned to the wharf, Wilson gave him a quick smile as he helped House aboard, but the bulk of his concentration was clearly on the boat. House sat on the padded bench inside the control cabin, or cockpit, as Wilson insisted on calling it, and watched as Wilson consulted dials and pushed buttons. He felt the motor engine rumble to life beneath him, and the smell of exhaust filled the air.

Then Wilson was detaching various lines from around the boat, working with intense concentra tion. House glanced up; the mast was still bare, the sail tied down to the rigging.

"Wind's right," Wilson said, returning to the cockpit. House had no idea. Wind was wind. It blew things around. Then the boat was moving slowly away from the dock, apparently steered via something resembling a five-foot-long baseball bat attached to the back of the boat, gripped firmly in Wilson's hand. An obscene metaphor was tempting, but House wasn't sure Wilson would have paid him any attention at that moment.

They made it through the mouth of the bay and into open water before Wilson put the sails up. It was singularly disconcerting watching Wilson do things House had no competency in - something he could offer no useful comment about whatsoever. He watched as Wilson hoisted and winched and tied, and the sails began to billow in the breeze. Then Wilson came back to the cockpit, made a few adjustments, and pressed buttons on a box set into the rectangular area va guely resembling a car dashboard.

"Autopilot," he explained, turning to House briefly.

As far as House could tell, they were headed south, sailing along the coastline. Traffic on the water was heavy; they passed boats of all shapes and sizes, and despite the autopilot Wilson frequently had to make manual adjustments. Despite the warmth of the sun and the breeze on his face, House couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He didn't feel ignored, exactly - Wilson took great pains to point out landmarks, made comments on passing boats, retold stories heard second- and third-hand - but he felt strangely overlooked. Out here the boat was clearly Wilson's priority, and it took up far more of his attention than, say, driving a car. And it wasn't like House could read charts or interpret the dashboard panel or tie knots or even know which buttons to press and when. He was essentially extraneous to this part of Wilson's life. He was simply there.

Perhaps he transmitted some of this mood to Wilson; House had never been very good at feigning interest, and his responses were probably less than ideal. After a while what was passing for conversation fell away, and they sailed in silence.

They moored in a small inlet for lunch, and briefly went below to make sandwiches and retrieve bags of potato chips before bringing them back out on deck. For the first time since leaving the dock, Wilson looked unhappy.

"You know this… doesn't change anything," Wilson said, before he had even taken a bite of his own sandwich. "I'm not coming back to the hospital. Ever."

House finished chewing before answering. "I… figured."

"And here… you'd die of boredom in a week."

"Less," House agreed. "Not to mention the acquired scoliosis."

"So…"

"So… It's only forty miles," House said. "About an hour on the highway. You should try it sometime."

Wilson thought about that for a while, eating his sandwich, staring out at the water and the passing seagulls.

"I guess I could… come by. If you wanted. Next weekend, maybe," he said at last.

"And if something comes up… you can always let yourself in, right?" House said, not quite able to hide the note of triumph in his voice. He knew it. He'd been right all along. Wilson might have 'forgotten' House's phone numbers out of self-protection, but he'd still kept the key. Which meant that in his mind, at least, he'd never really left House. Not completely. He just… hadn't quite gotten around to coming back.

Wilson smiled, ruefully, understanding. "I guess I could. Unless you've moved. Or changed the locks."

"Nope. Delivery menus are right where they always were, too."

Wilson laughed, and kissed him, and House thought that things might actually turn out okay. Not necessarily ideal, but better than the past years of slowly driving each other crazy. A little more closeness; a little more distance. On balance it would probably average out about the same.

On the way back, House found himself a spot near the front of the boat where he could stretch out in comfort, leaving Wilson to guide the boat home in peace. He stayed there for the rest of the journey, watching the waves go by, occasionally dozing. Remembering his dream of drifting toward safe harbor.

 

***

 

That night, dinner over, House announced there was one more thing he wanted to try before he left.

He became slightly less enthusiastic when Wilson insisted it first involve him sitting on the tiny toilet for a good 15 minutes with an old but unused bulb syringe. There were some things Wilson might have become more flexible about, but he apparently still had his limits. He realized then that Wilson must have done the same thing the day before i n anticipation, which meant he'd known all along, or at least hoped, that House would return. For some reason, that made him feel slightly better about the awkward procedure. Even though in the light of his long-term Vicodin usage it wasn't like House hadn't done this kind of thing before. Just not for exactly the same reasons.

It was some small consolation that Wilson was naked on the bed when House finally returned, a clear pale outline in the glow of the hatch skylight. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, and casually stroking himself in a way that got House's immediate attention.

"So, can anyone play?" House asked, crawling in beside him.

It felt better touching Wilson now, more familiar, more relaxed. They lay facing each other, hands caressing each other in long strokes, sometimes fumbling, sometimes getting in each other's way, kissing when they remembered.

After a while of this Wilson pushed House ont o his back, just as he had the first time. Only this time he crawled to the head of the bed for a pillow.

"Lift up," he ordered House, then slid the pillow underneath, leaving House's butt raised, his legs up and apart. It felt awkward but not uncomfortable. The awkwardness increased as Wilson accompanied the first touch of his mouth with a lubed finger rubbed against House's perineum, gradually stroking its way down toward and around the puckered hole. House bucked and gasped, even though the blow job was nothing like the same award-winning performance Wilson had given last time; it was gentle, just enough to keep House's erection intact.

Then Wilson pushed the tip of his finger in, drawing a moan from him. House wasn't a complete stranger to this kind of stimulation; he and Stacy had experimented enough for this to be somewhat familiar. But it had been a very long time, and she had never done it like this, usually reaching for him as best she coul d when he was already deep inside her. The results had been somewhat hit and miss. But Wilson's focus was absolute, and the results were impressive.

Wilson continued opening House up, stretching him, and after a short time House was over the initial discomfort and increasingly vocal in his appreciation. There was an element of experimentation about Wilson's touch: light feathery strokes followed by rougher ones as he tried to determine what House most enjoyed. House was driven to the edge of distraction and back until he finally reached down to push Wilson off him, anxious to get on with it. He took a breather while he helped stroke Wilson into hardness again.

As soon as Wilson began, House almost regretted his eagerness; Wilson's cock seemed to be a lot larger to take than his fingers had been, but he breathed and relaxed as Wilson pushed in fraction by fraction, aided by unnatural quantities of lube. Then Wilson was fully inside him, and House ope ned his eyes and pushed himself up far enough for a kiss, wanting this, wanting him. After a moment's more adjustment Wilson began moving inside him, short, firm strokes that took his breath away. Then a little faster, a little harder. Sensation built on sensation, pleasure roiling and curling through him until he couldn't take it any longer.

"God… have to…" he said, and began to touch himself shamelessly, jerking himself off with rapid movements of his wrist. There was less pressure on his prostate now; Wilson had shifted and had begun pounding into him in earnest, in a kind of graceless, breathless frenzy.

Even without encouragement House reached his orgasm first, and even as the shudders ran through him he could hear Wilson crying out above him. The world was a tangle of heat and sweat and flesh. With his free hand, House clutched tightly onto Wilson and gasped for breath as the waves rolled and broke over both of them.

 

** *

 

The sound of Wilson's voice woke him from half-sleep. It was apparently morning already. House cracked one eye open to see Wilson standing in the open doorway to the main cabin, already fully dressed.

"House? Come on, I have to go in fifteen minutes. Unless you want to make your own way off." Wilson sounded amused at the thought.

"'M coming," House muttered. Wilson nodded and disappeared into the bathroom while House dragged himself out of bed and made some attempt at collecting his few belongings and dressing himself.

When he was more or less presentable, he went into the main cabin and made himself a bowl of cereal in the galley. He was standing there still eating it when Wilson emerged. He looked far more casual than he ever had at PPTH. His shirt was still impeccably ironed - since he needed to visit the laundry to get his washing done, House suspected he got his shirts pressed there too - but the sleeves were r olled up, the top button undone. His hair looked slightly disheveled, and it took House a moment to realize that he had stopped blow-drying it. No wonder House had managed to sleep in.

Wilson grabbed an apple from the hanging net bag and shoved it into an open backpack on the table. He looked at House. "Ready?"

House shrugged, drained the last of the milk, and put the bowl and spoon in the sink. After a pointed glare from Wilson, he rinsed them. Then he helped himself to an apple as well and slung his own backpack over his shoulder. As they maneuvered themselves onto the dock - Wilson nimbly, House less so - and along the wharf, House reflected that they looked like two very badly prepared hikers.

Wilson's car was parked in a separate long-term area, so he walked House to his car first. Wilson had seemed deep in thought again, in that way that usually preceded some kind of spontaneous outburst. House waited, but even as they were saying their too-casual goodbyes, it didn't come. Then suddenly, he realized.

"I know what your problem is," he said, reaching for his keys.

"I'm… sorry?" Wilson said, confused. "I didn't think ogling Cuddy for me would be an issue for you."

"Not that," House said. "I'd be doing that anyway. I mean, this weird… quiet I've been getting from you. It's not like you at all. But I get it now. Your problem is that for once in your life you can't keep… harping at me about what I do. You can't keep asking me whether I'm sure about this, whether I'm serious, whether this is going anywhere, even though you really want to. Because then it'd make you look all pathetic and needy, and that's my job."

Wilson just looked uncomfortable. "Well…"

"The answer is yes. To everything," House said, and kissed him right there in the parking lot, one more time for the road.

As he drove away, he could see Wilson in the rear-view mirror. He had one hand up in a half-wave, and he was smiling.

 

***

 

The reception area of PPTH had never felt so homey, so spacious, so interesting. Except for the clinic patients, but there always had to be raisins in the apple pie of life.

"Honey, I'm home," House said, bursting into Cuddy's office. She was alone this time, and was probably grateful for it.

"You're back," she said, surprised and smiling.

"Yep."

Cuddy studied him, waiting, but House was enjoying himself far too much.

"So…" she said finally. "It went well. You found him."

"Yep. I even have a note."

He handed her his receipt from Wilson's office. She glanced over it quickly before looking back up at House.

"Do you think… Is he interested in taking his old job back?"

"Nope."

She stood up, frowning. "So you foun d Wilson, but he's not interested in coming back."

House pulled an exaggerated face of exasperation. "I thought I already covered that bit."

"So… did you come back to tell me you're resigning?" she asked, worried now.

"Nope." House held out his hand, palm up. "And Lucas gets billed to administration."

She shook her head in frustration, but reached into her bottom drawer and handed House his hospital ID. He took it with more gratitude than he let on.

"Thanks," he said, running his fingers over the smooth plastic. "I'll throw it in my drawer first chance I get."

He turned away, but Cuddy caught him by the arm just before he reached the doors.

"House. I know you enjoy being cryptic, but… is Wilson all right?"

"He's fine."

She looked into his face, judging the truth of his words, and appeared to be satisfied.

"And you?"

"Never better."

Cuddy considered this a moment longer.

"So he's not coming back, and you're not leaving, but you two are… okay again."

House thought about the past few days: the boat, Wilson's office, the curve of Wilson's bare shoulders above him in the light, the prospect of seeing him again this weekend, and on weekends to come. He appeared to ponder the question very carefully, smiling inwardly.

"I… guess we are."

He turned and walked out of the office, whistling, leaving Cuddy to watch and wonder.


End file.
